


dave strider is an idiot (and other assorted works)

by cherrycola (tangledthoughts)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Board Game Cafe AU, M/M, Pining, also john and jane are half asian cause i want them to, bet that's obscure huh, coffee shop AU, comp hets a real bitch, dave's fuckin useless holy shit, dirk is greasy and only mentioned, escape room escape room escape room, except not really, haven't homestucked in a while actually, i loooove u miss lalonde, i love u miss harley, i pretend i do not see homestuck 2, karkats here too, ooc feferi because im stupid brain no worky only johndave, the board game cafe aspect becomes smaller and smaller as i continue writing, the trope of wearing someone else's hoodie is here because i like it, this is not a board game cafe au anymore, wasian john wasian john
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:54:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22055863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangledthoughts/pseuds/cherrycola
Summary: dave moves to washington, discovers a dinky little board game cafe, and proceeds to make a fool of himself in front of cute boys. or boy (singular). a series of little vignettes.alt title: i'll never get board of you (haha get it? cause it's a board game cafe au and board like board game i am master of comedie)
Relationships: John Egbert/Dave Strider, John Egbert/Karkat Vantas (previous), Rose Lalonde/Kanaya Maryam (minor)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 48
Collections: johndave, progress





	1. Chapter 1

A coolkid walks into a board game cafe that he doesn't know is a board game cafe.  
Sounds like the opening line to a truly terrible joke, but nope, that's exactly what's happening here. How do you know?  
Because you are the coolkid. The coolkid is you.

==> Dave: Be the coolkid

What? Are you kidding? You're already the coolkid. Okay, you've said coolkid far too many times, it's starting to not even sound like a word.

Your real name is DAVE STRIDER, and you don't know why you're here in this dinky little cafe. The Starbucks down the road usually satiates your craving for caffeine well enough, but you find yourself standing in the doorway of The Prospit anyways. 

The atmosphere of the place feels welcoming, you note. All golden tones and light brown wood floors, the cafe gives off an air of home. The menu itself is small, and slightly overpriced, but when is it not in these hipster places? You order some sort of sugary coffee drink that's more milk than coffee, and the girl behind the counter offers you a smile, her eyes crinkling in cheer behind her round spectacles.  
You don't smile back.

She hands you your receipt and your change, and bounds off to make your drink, still all dark wild hair and smiles. The cafe is fairly empty, but there are a couple people playing Uno in a corner table. There are shelves filled with something you can't bother to pay attention to, and you awkwardly shove your hands into the pockets of your jeans as you wait near the counter for your drink.

Glasses-and-long-dark-hair girl pops her head out from the kitchen, and tells you cheerfully that "There's no need to stand! We'll bring your drink to you." and you nod back in acknowledgement, like you've known that all along and were just choosing to stand there like the bastard you are.

At least, you hope that's what that nod conveys. You feel a bit too embarrassed to stand anymore, and you cooly slide into a seat at a table clearly meant for four to mask your embarrassment.  
You busy yourself on your phone as you wait, and soon a drink is set down in front of you with a gentle clink. Glancing up from underneath your eyelashes, your vision is greeted with the sight of another employee, this one giving you a mildly confused yet curious look. 

You return the gaze with a blank stare of your own, quickly sizing up the other person. He's tall and well built, with messy black hair and rectangular frames. Coming to the conclusion that he's as much of a threat as a week-old puppy, you turn your attention back to your very important ironic comic blog. SBAHJ fans are rioting because of your inconsistent update schedule, and while normally that's all part of the fun, you think they might actually take up pitchforks if you delay the update one more week.

You are a merciful god. 

The god of ironically terrible comic strips of equally terrible image quality.

Hell yeah.

After a minute or two, you hear the waiter's footsteps shuffle away from you. Five minutes later, the soft squeaking of his sneakers draws nearer again and he even plops down right on the other side of your table. 

Normally, you would care less if some employee was slacking off on their job in your proximity, but it turns out you care a lot more when the employee in question is a goober who's trying to initiate conversation with you despite your general unapproachable manner.

Goddammit. You spent a long time building up that emotional wall. It's like the motherfucking Great Wall of Dave all up in here, the here in question being your brain. You'll be damned if you let some nerd poke a hole in your defenses, especially not one who is so blatantly invading your you-time.

"Hey, what's your name?"

"What do you want."

"Gee, that's an odd name."  
You groan at his terrible joke and he holds up his hands in mock surrender.

"Okay, okay, fine, sorry I started talking to you out of the blue or whatever, I just found it weird that you were sitting here alone."

"What's so weird about sitting alone in a cafe?"

He raises an eyebrow at you and you shrug. He seems almost astonished that you haven't caught his drift yet.  
"Well, you do need at least two people to play board games. We don't get customers in here for our spectacular coffee."

You do a double take.  
Board games?  
You look over at the people playing Uno, and then back at the shelves lining the cafe.  
They're positively stacked with board games.  
Little by little, you start noticing small details, like the chalkboard next to the menu that says 'buy a drink to play! :)' in lazily scrawled handwriting, or the tiny sign on the counter asking customers to please take care of the games.  
You are an idiot.  
The idiot is you.

He notices your stricken gaze and the doofus has the nerve to laugh at you.  
"Oh man, did you not know? Holy shit." He manages to speak through his sudden fit of giggles, before dissolving into laughter yet again.

You scowl at him, before burying your flushed face in your hands and pretending you don't exist. You can't play it off now, since he already knows. Goddammit.  
"Shut up. Shut up. I hate you." You mumble into your hands, not sparing him a glance. Your shades are pushed up awkwardly into your hair, and you currently want to melt into your chair.

He goes to pat you on the back of your hand, but since both of your hands are currently occupied with your sulking, he just ends up papping your hands reassuringly.  
"Jeez, it's fine, I just found it kinda weird. I didn't mean to laugh at you. Well, I did, but— bluh. Ignore that part?"

Taking a deep breath, you ignore him to readjust your shades and your pokerface. Your hands go back to rest on the table, and you take a practiced, yet totally casual sip of your sugary milk drink that honestly barely qualifies as coffee. Jesus, what'd they put in here, straight sugar?  
Now that your facade is completely put back together, you can shove every embarrassing thing you did in the past minute into the corner of your brain and finally get the doofus nerd waiter off your back.

He's still grinning at you idiotically, like he's cracked some sort of code by getting you to be visibly embarrassed, and it makes you just a tiny bit nervous. You don't know what he's planning, but he definitely looks like he's plotting something.

"I'll talk to you if you ignore what just happened," you finally concede, and it's hard not to notice how he brightens at that.  
You wonder why he's bothering with all of this. To him, you're just another customer, but you wouldn't put it past him to be exactly the kind of guy who goes out of his way to be nice to strangers and actually means it. 

You're no Rose Lalonde, annoying sister and psychoanalyst extraordinare, but you deem yourself a pretty fuckin good judge of character.  
And this judge bangs his gavel and for mysterious nerd employee, declares a verdict of guilty of being a genuinely nice goober. The courtroom goes wild.

Did you mention you have no idea how law works?

You hear the aforementioned goober laugh. "Terezi would be furious. Though I'm glad you think I'm nice!"

You're about to question him on the Terezi person and if it was the same crackhead Terezi you knew, blind chalk-eating bitch and all (there couldn't be that many people named Terezi in the world. it was a weird fucking name), but then came the realization that he shouldn't have heard any of that unless..…. shit. You're almost afraid to ask. 

"…… How much of that did I say out loud?"

He shrugs. "I heard something about Rose, your sister, and then the whole courtroom spiel." Leaning forward in his seat, he looks at you eagerly. "So? Tell me about her."

In response, you laugh disbelievingly. "Holy shit. Hold up. Y' ain't gonna get me to talk about her. Even if we," you point a finger at him and then yourself to get your message across, "- were fuckin' married or some shit, really kills the mood to kick this conversation off with my sister of all things, don't you think?"  
Besides, Rose Lalonde is a force better experienced than explained, and, well, if they ever met, you think Waiter Dude wouldn't stand a chance against your sister. 

He seems to consider your reply, tilting his head.  
"That's fair, I guess."

Before you could shoot back a snarky one-liner, he gets up and walks away, and you're sort of confused because you thought this was going pretty well. All of your silent questions are answered when the guy plops back down in the seat across from you, this time with a tall box of what you recognize as Jenga in his arms.

"Oh no."

"Oh yes." He grins from behind the box, immediately upending it. The Jenga pieces clatter noisily onto the table, drawing a few curious glances from the patrons of the cafe. You carefully inch your drink away from the pile of wooden bricks.

He claps once, surveying the mess of Jenga pieces happily. "So. This is a game I made up—"

"Wow, copyright infringement. Somebody call Hasbro."

"Shh! I'm not claiming that I made Jenga, smartass! This is a game I made up that just so happens to use Jenga pieces."  
You open your mouth to interrupt once again, but he fixes you with a look that is more just intense stare rather than a glare like he was probably intending for it to be, and you shut up because you're a nice person.

"It's called Twenty Questions Jenga, and how it works is you play it like normal Jenga, but every time you successfully pull out a block and stack it on top without toppling the tower, you get to ask the other person any question that they have to answer truthfully." He's building the tower three pieces at a time while he's talking, and occasionally, you help by shoving some blocks at him that are out of his reach.

"This sounds like an icebreaker game that they made me play in middle school with all of the other dumb middle school kids, honestly. Not a great sales pitch, 3/10."

"Yeah, okay, but it'll be more fun since we're adults and we have more things to talk about than our names and our favorite colors!"

"Speak for yourself."

He sticks his tongue out at you like he's in first grade, revealing his buckteeth. You stare at his mouth for longer than what is probably socially acceptable, until he continues speaking.

"Whoever knocks down the tower first has to do one thing the other person tells them to do."

You waggle your eyebrows at him, the innuendo barely at the tip of your tongue before he leans over and smacks you on the arm, almost tipping over the now-finished tower in the process.

"No! Stop thinking whatever you're thinking. I'll start first." 

During the game, you learn that his name is John Egbert, so now you can stop calling him The Employee in your head. His favorite color is green despite all of the blue he wears and he has a salamander named Casey who he loves and babies constantly. You ask about Terezi and he rolls his eyes, saying that she's a blind law student that he hangs out with sometimes. As you pluck a piece from the very center of the tower, you listen to him babble on about his very real obsession with bad movies ("Dude. I can't believe you have an unironic boner for Nic Cage movies." "Con Air is a cinematic masterpiece!" "It's really not.") and his love for pranks. You discover that he can't see how many fingers you hold up if he takes off his glasses, though he does still playfully slap your hand down once you test his vision with a middle finger to the face. Slowly but surely, bits and pieces of information cobble themselves together to form a general picture of the person sitting across from you.

And just as you learn about him, he learns about you. He learns that your name is Dave Strider, and no, you don't just wear these shades indoors because you think they look cool. You tell him you just recently moved to Washington, and it's pretty rough adjusting to the overall strangeness that is the North. and he offers to guide you around the city someday. He listens intently when you say your favorite color is red and you don't have a pet, but you feed the crows outside your apartment scraps sometimes, and they keep coming back for more. Egbert doesn't fully get SBAHJ and all the stuff you do for the ironies, but it's alright. Sometimes you don't understand it either. He asks to see your photography after you talk about it and you say maybe another time, though you normally would have just straight up refused. 

It's strange having someone you met just today know so much about you. A part of you muses that you really haven't met too many people since you moved to Washington, so you don't exactly have a meter for what's normal and what's not. The rest of you tells that tiny segment of your brain to shut the fuck up. 

In fact, you are so busy stomping on that dissenting corner of your mind that your hand slips while pulling out a Jenga piece and the precarious tower comes tumbling down with a mighty crash. Some pieces even skitter off the table, making their way under the nooks and crannies of other tables. John yelps at the sudden noise, and then starts laughing, pumping his fist in the air victoriously. 

"I win!" He crows much too triumphantly for someone who's won a single game of Jenga.

"Congrats. You are the winner. The winner is you."

"Okay, okay, geez, normally I wouldn't be this excited, but I have an idea in mind for the forfeit!"

Oh right. You forgot about that in the midst of all of the banter.

"Well, fuck, that's ominous. Is it too late to back out?"

"Yep. Definitely." Despite his words, he seems a bit unsure about whatever he plans to make you do. You're glad that the slight dread in your eyes is concealed by your shades, because you don't really think he would try anything bad, but you are just a tad bit paranoid.

Before he can say anything, he suddenly looks away from you. Confused, you turn your head and follow his line of sight to see a face poking out from the curtain that separates the employees' room from the rest of the shop.  
It's not the wild haired cheerful girl from last time. Instead, a grouchy expression, half hidden behind short tufts of brunette hair, greets the both of you when you look. The grumpy-faced man shuffles out from behind the curtain, making a rude gesture in your direction and John sighs from across from you, getting up reluctantly. 

"Sorry. Business calls. I'll pick up the Jenga blocks on the floor, don't worry."  
He gives you a half wave in parting as he trots off to talk to the other guy with a cheerful "Hey Karkat!". You frown and turn to the mess of wooden pieces in front of you.  
You guess you should put these away?

Gingerly, one by one, the blocks get put back into their rightful spot in the container. John stops by your table once or twice to return the fallen pieces, but he can't stay long enough to chat. Soon, your drink is finished and the Jenga box has been carefully placed back on the shelf, so you really have no reason to stay, but you linger behind anyways.  
Your eyes are drawn to the counter, where John is animatedly talking with the person you can only assume is named Karkat. 

Out of the blue, a mass of dark curly hair obscures your line of sight and you look up to see the girl from earlier, glasses-and-long-dark-hair girl. She's smiling at you, like she knows something you don't. A slip of paper is slid silently onto the table in exchange for your empty glass, and she bounces off.  
You wonder if all of the employees at this cafe are this enigmatic.

Picking up the slip of paper, you head out of The Prospit, though you loiter just outside. Your hands gently unfold the paper, and you read.

_hi dave! i was gonna ask you for your pester chum handle for the forfeit, but karkat (that's my manager, heheh) called me over before i could. i still want your chum handle, but here's mine instead! hit me up when you have the time, dude. you're pretty fun to talk to.  
\- john_

Under the paragraph, there was his chumhandle, ectoBiologist, and you take the time to snort at John's tendency to separate compound words in his writing. You'd think the dude skipped that class in middle school or something. Glancing through the cafe window, you can see John still talking to his manager. Though he's slightly blocked out by a large houseplant right in front of the glass, an idea hits you.  
You open up the Pesterchum app on your phone, and type in his username. 

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 14:26 -- 

TG: hey man  
TG: its dave  
TG: from the cafe  
TG: text me back when youre off work  
TG: dont want to be ruining your work ethic or anythin

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] stopped pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 14:27 -- 

Through the window, you see him fumble for his phone and his bright toothy smile when he finds your messages makes your stomach feel weird, but not in a bad way. You watch him glance at the table where you sat before, before you remind yourself that this is a very creepy thing to do and you should probably book it before you get fined for loitering. Your own phone buzzes rapidly, which is probably John responding to you, but you ignore it in favor of messaging Dirk to please fucking remove the smuppets that were snuck into your apartment the last time he drove down from Houston and crashed at your pad.

Priorities.  
No, seriously, getting rid of those fuckers tops everything else. You're sure John will understand your plight.

He texts you again, much later in the day. This time, you actually respond.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pranks! japes! trickery! dave breaking and entering the egbert-crocker household. clothing shenanigans. the fun stuff.

Over the next few months, hanging out at The Prospit becomes a habit. You walk in at around 1 pm, John waves you down from behind the counter, and you order a drink as an excuse to chill with him. The two of you have become fast friends, and your conversations over Pesterchum often spiral into nonsense, but it's a good kind of nonsense. 

Each time you come in, you learn something new about the place. After you slip up and call the dark-haired waitress "Glasses-and-long-dark-hair girl" to her face, she laughingly informs you that her name is Jade Harley.  
Through Jade and John, you quickly learn the names of all of the employees that work at The Prospit. There's Karkat Vantas (the short-tempered but caring manager), there's Jake English (the supply guy who swings by once a week and always has an outlandish story to tell), Jane Crocker (the resident baker who holes up in the kitchen and rarely comes out, and yes, her real last name is Crocker, like the evil demon lady on the premade cake mixes, John says with mild disgust. You don't know what the dude has against Betty Crocker, but it is pretty funny.), Jade Harley, and of course, John Egbert. It's a bit understaffed, but they make it work.

John has a lot to say about his fellow employees. He chatters on and on about the last wacky exploit Jake got himself tangled up in, and how the week before, Karkat had attempted to give an entire lesson on how relationships should work after a giant misunderstanding between Jane and Jake. It's endearing how much he cares about everything, and you're a good listener. In return, he actually pays attention to your longwinded rambling, something other people mostly ignore or try to stop. 

After sticking around The Prospit so often, you get to know the other employees too, not just their names.   
Karkat is fun to tease, since he's very easy to rile up. You think you see him fall for the same bucket prank John set up above the door two times in a row, and when he thinks you aren't listening, he tries to offer John romance advice that sounds like it's ripped straight out of a shitty romcom. When you ask John about it, he grimaces and tells you that Karkat thinks the two of you are dating. You laugh it off, but he doesn't seem to find any humor in it, instead choosing to aimlessly trace the grooves in the old table you two are sitting at with his finger. You wonder absentmindedly if his uncomfortable silence is because he's averse to dating dudes.

You're there when Jade legitimately whips out a gun from her apron after some dude tries to hold up the cafe, and it's not the smartest decision she could've made in hindsight, but damn if it wasn't badass as fuck to see a wild-haired spectacled lady pull a gun on a wannabe thief. Because Jade Harley with a pistol and a deadly gleam in her eyes is a fearsome sight for anyone to behold, you're not the least bit surprised when the robber backs off and makes a run for it.

You meet Jane for the first time when she comes out of the kitchen on the second week you'd incorporated visiting The Prospit into your schedule. The first thing you notice about her is her remarkable similarity to John, just in the way she holds herself and the way she smiles ear to ear at you. Short wisps of black hair frames her round face nicely, and though she's small and stout next to John, they somehow seem very alike. The second thing is how she's covered in smudges of flour and batter from head to toe, and seems to recognize you on the spot for some reason. She tells you that John talks about you an awful lot, the aforementioned boy shuffling embarrassedly in the background, and pulls you into an unexpected hug.

You'll never forget Jane Crocker, especially because when she hugged your stiff, skinny, southern twink body, she took the time to whisper a threat into your ear that went along the lines of "If you ever break my cousin's heart, you'll be dead before you can say 'yeehaw', you Texan bitch," before giving you a loving pat on the back and letting you go.  
Needless to say, you were very, very confused. And also a little terrified. You think numbly that Dirk would probably love to meet her one day, but you are just a small bit afraid of what might happen if you bring the two of them together.

Jake is at the Prospit the twenty seventh day you've made a habit of visiting the Prospit and you're there, watching him regale enraptured passerbys with what you think is the tale of how his truck broke down on the highway and he had to hitchhike his way back with a strange old lady who knew who he was without even asking.  
You note Jake could be John's twin, with how much they look alike, but there are noticeable differences  
For one, Jake doesn't have John's bluer than blue eyes, or the same endearing smile. The face structure is off, even if only by a small bit, and where Jake is slim and short, John is lanky and broad-shouldered. The hands are different. Jake has calloused, stubby fingers, probably from all the heavy lifting he does, you suppose. John has long slender piano hands, the type that wouldn't be out of place at a concert or even at the piano itself. You say this to John one day, omitting the sappy shit, and he looks genuinely surprised.

"Woah. People just assume we're related, but we're actually not. He's like a brother to me, but he's not like, actually my brother, y'know?"   
You nod in acknowledgement, gesturing for him to continue.  
"It's surprising that you noticed that, to be honest!"  
Yet another patented Egbert grin, and your insides feel fuzzy. 

Must be the entirely too sugary coffee. 

Instead of telling him that he makes you feel a good kind of weird, you say that the coffee here sucks, because technically, you're not lying. He punches your shoulder in mock offense, because he's in charge of the drinks for this place.

"One star on Yelp." You deadpan, ducking out of the way of his playful hits with practiced speed. "The coffee is trash and the customer service is terrible. Watch out for a server named Egbert, he might force his terrible movie taste onto y—"  
John manages to get an arm slung around your neck in a headlock and starts to give you a noogie, much to your displeasure. You squirm in his arms and he laughs at you, light and breezy.

"Dude, the hair, watch the hair!"

"That's what you get for insulting my movie taste! Sucks to suck, doesn't it, Striderrrr?" He drags out the 'r' sound in your name, rolling it slightly. You raise an eyebrow at him, finally wriggling out of his grip.

"I don't know, you tell me, man. Takes one to know one, doesn't it, Egberrrrt?" You mimick his tone of voice, smirking up at him, and he lunges for you again.

"Boys!" A warning voice cuts the two of you off, and both of you scramble to look as innocent as possible. Jane has both of her hands on her hips and an unimpressed look on her face. 

"No roughhousing in the cafe. This is an establishment, not a wrestling arena." 

"Sorry Jane!" You both apologize in unison, but John tacks on a whispered "haha jinx dave you owe me a soda" at the end and you really want to shove him, but Jane is still staring at the two of you disapprovingly. In the end, she sighs and shifts her line of sight to address John.   
"Karkat said your shift isn't over yet and sent me out to haul you back to the kitchen."

He groans in response, tilting his head up and collapsing dramatically on your shoulder. 

"My shift ends in 30 minutes! I just wanna hang out with my best bud." 

You shrug him off your shoulder, raising your arm up so that it no longer supports him, and his head lands in your lap with a soft thud.

"Nevermind. Best bud status revoked. My point still stands, though, it's only a couple of minutes!"   
He whines from your lap, looking up at Jane with wide eyes. She doesn't seem impressed, but you, personally, are shocked that she is immune to John's puppy dog eyes.

"A couple of minutes that you could spend actually earning your paycheck, fuckass!" Karkat's voice chimes in loudly from the backroom, and John sits up so fast it almost gives you whiplash.

"Okay, I'm going, jegus!" He gives you a resigned look as he brushes imaginary dirt off his apron and stands up. "Sorry. Talk to you in half an hour, kay?"

"Yeah, man, no sweat. Earn a living, pay those bills an' shit. I got you."

He laughs at that, making his way to the backroom with Jane on his heels. You watch his retreating figure for probably longer than necessary, before turning to your phone to keep you company. Soon, you hear light footsteps that you've come to recognize as Jade's and the girl herself slides into the seat across from you seconds later. Her eyes twinkle mischeviously at you, and you brace yourself for the inevitable awkward conversation.

"So…. John, huh?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

She makes a face at you that you catch out of the corner of your eye and you pointedly ignore her. After a moment of Jade pulling dumb faces at you to try to regain your attention, she gives up with a huff.

"Rude! I was gonna tell you that you didn't need to hide your relationship with John from the rest of us, but suddenly I don't feel like giving you that courtesy anymore!"

You snort.   
"Like you were courteous in the first place. Y—"   
Your brain finally catches up with the first part of the sentence, and you pause. 

"Wait, what the fuck?"

She waves her hand impatiently. "I said—"

"No, no, I heard what you said. My point still stands; what the fuck?"

Studying your face for any sign of insincerity, she seems to come to the same conclusion as you and her own expression falls. "You mean?"

"If your question is whether or not me an' John are secretly swept up in a sinful secret relationship like half the staff seems to think, I'm afraid I'm going to have to disappoint you and give you a big fat fuckin' hell no on that."

"Not just half the staff." Jade mutters under her breath.

"Excuse me?"

"Don't worry about it."

You make a note to worry about it later at a more appropriate time. There's still a conversation to carry.

"Anyways, I don't even think he swings that way." You say with an incredible amount of nonchalance that would make Hollywood actors weep tears of envy. Dave Strider, king of discussing his friend's sexuality as casually as if it's the fuckin' weather. Hello, Harley, quite windy today, isn't it? Also, John's straight, so stop insinuating things about me and him, it wouldn't work. Anyways, it's not raining like it always is, isn't that nice? 

You're glad your inner monologue doesn't slip out, because Jade doesn't seem to buy it, even when it's limited to a single statement.

"Well," she stops mid-sentence, worrying her lip with her teeth. "Nevermind. It's not my place to tell you."

"Now I'm curious. Rookie mistake, Harley, don't tease. What's John got hidden?"

"Just let him tell you himself!" She huffs, kicking you under the table. "I said it's not your business, so it's not your business!"

"No, now I gotta know. C'mon."

"Ugh, so annoying! What does he see in you, honestly?" Jade's barbed words are obviously joking, but it hits a nerve you didn't know you had. Nevertheless, you play it off.

"My dashing good looks. My wit and charm. My humilty. Lots of things. I'm in high demand. People be lining up for a piece of Strider, Harley, consider yourself blessed to be talking to me right now. You are in the presence of a motherfuckin' god."

You are gifted with a grimace on her part.   
"Don't say motherfuckin'. It makes you sound like the juggalo person who keeps dropping by to ask if we stock Faygo." 

You vaguely remember that dude from last week, and the week before that. He really loves to bug Karkat.

"Motherfuckin'." As a unspoken challenge you drawl it, trying to imitate the pitch of the stranger as well as you can from the little snippets of his voice that you remember. It's not spot on, but Jade reacts negatively enough, which means it must be a pretty good impression.

"Stop!"

"Mooootherfuckin'."

Jade scowls at you, but before you're forced to face her wrath, John skids out of the kitchen, dripping brown liquid and still grinning somehow. You stop antagonizing Jade long enough to look over at him, and she quickly follows your gaze.  
Saved by the Egbert, you guess.

"Hi guys!" He trots over to the table, like he's not trailing mystery substance on the floor. 

"Holy shit, dude. Did you almost drown yourself in, uh, whatever that brown thing is?" You point to a splotch on his uniform, and he looks down with a frown.

"Aw fuck, I liked this white shirt!" John frowns, rubbing the stain in between his fingers like it'll have any effect whatsoever. "It's chocolate milkshake."

"Why are you covered in chocolate milkshake?"

He adverts his eyes, cheeky smile back in place. "Well…."

Jade's voice takes on a dangerous tone. "John, if it was another one of your pranks,"

"No! Well, I mean, yes, but no!" Probably realizing that he isn't getting his point across well enough, he sighs, raking his dry hand through his hair.

"See, I was going to prank Jane, you know that prank war we have going on, and it was just a lucky coincidence that the blender. Um. Kind of. Exploded?"

Jade is on her feet faster than you can blink. "The blender exploded? Jesus christ, John, that's dangerous! Are you hurt? Do you have any wounds?"

You've never seen somebody backpedal so fast. 

"Uh, maybe exploded isn't the right word… it just launched all of its contents into the air and made a mess. It didn't physically explode!"   
He pauses.   
"We're still going to have to buy a new blender though. We can put it under business expenses."

John directs his megawatt grin at you now, and you can't help but give a faint smile back. "Jane got the worst of it, to be honest! We both laughed it off, it's fine," he spreads his arms out, as if anticipating a hug.

With his arms spread and chocolate milkshake dripping from his body, you can physically see his Prankster's Gambit rising. "Jade! Come give me a hug!"

Jade squeals in laughter, her worry forgotten, and dashes off before he can tackle her. You watch in mild amusement, before John turns back to you.

"Okay, I know this might be a bit of a weird favor to ask, but my address is 21605 Fir Dr, Maple Valley. Could you drive down there and get dry clothes for me?" Before you can interject, he adds, "The spare key is under the dumb harlequin gnome in the front yard. Please don't ask."

"Wow, that's … a really suburban area. You don't live in Seattle?"

He shrugs, wringing out his shirt. "I have an apartment waiting for me, but I haven't moved in yet. My dad wants me and Jane to stay with him, but it's easier for all of us if we both move out."

"Gotcha. 'S there any chance of an awkward encounter with Dadbert?"

You hear him snicker. "Dadbert? Really? And, uh, probably not? He still has work."

And that's how you find yourself driving down to the middle of nowhere, Washington, in your old beat up rented car. You're very lucky that your GPS signal hasn't given up yet, though you suspect it's pretty damn close. Through the hazy tint of your shades, you squint at the house numbers as your ride sputters down the road like an old geezer on his deathbed.   
21603, 21604, and there's 21605, with the harlequin gnome on the front yard, just like he said.  
You pull into the driveway, thanking any non-existent force up there that it was devoid of any Dadbert car, because man, that would be awkward to explain.

The harlequin gnome does indeed yield a spare key from under its large, clown-shoed, stone feet, and the front door clicks open easily. You shuffle into the doorway, feeling a lot like an unwelcome intruder into the private life of the Egbert-Crocker household.  
The first thing you see is, wow, there are a fuck ton of harlequin pictures. What the hell? You would judge, but you also spent most of your childhood surrounded by smuppets and the everlooming freaky presence of Lil Cal, so you suppose it would be hypocritical of you to criticize the choice of interior design.  
You make a note to grill John on this later on nevertheless. 

You ascend (up the staircase) and start searching for his room. Two doors are locked when you try the handles, so you guess the unlocked one is John's. You peek inside just to make sure.  
Yup. There's Nick Cage's ugly mug staring back at you in a giant poster. Unless Jane has the same fixation with the worst actor you have had the pleasure of seeing on the big screen, which you sincerely doubt that she does, this is most likely not her room. 

Stepping inside, you glance around. It has the air of a childhood bedroom, but there are visible gaps in the shelves and things that don't seem fully complete about this room. You find your answer as to why this is when you spot boxes scattered indiscriminately on the floor, half packed with keepsakes and other such items.   
To your right, there's a salamander you recognize as Casey from John's many, many, loving descriptions of her. She's just as yellow and tiny as you'd imagined.

She blows a bubble at you. You try to blow a bubble back, but to no avail. The two of you stand there in mutual silence for a while, the amphibian and the dumbass, until you snap back to your senses.  
Right. You have a task. Retrieve dry clothes for John.  
The closet is small and messy, with shirts hung the wrong side out on some of the hangers and an equal amount of items tossed carelessly on the floor of the closet.  
You watch as a haphazardly placed hoodie slides unceremoniously off its hanger and onto the growing pile of clothes, and forcefully remind yourself yet again that you have no right to judge, because your closet is also in shambles.

But you will judge anyways, because if there's one trait you share with Rose (but you'll admit only on your deathbed that you share anything in common with rose), it's being a judgemental prick.

You pick up the pullover that fell on the pile and scrutinize it. Blue, with a strange symbol on it. It should suffice. It's draped carefully over your left arm, and you search for a t-shirt to go under it and pants. Since you're not fucking prepping Egbert for a date with a girl or some shit, (the thought makes your stomach twist so you shove it back into the dark recesses of your mind, the same corners that hold your self-doubt and your insecurities), any old t-shirt and pants will do. 

Dude's probably very sticky by now. Chocolate milkshake doesn't seem like it leaves a pleasant residue behind. Keeping that in mind, you simply grab whatever you spot first, which turns out to be khakis and a t-shirt that has some sort of dorky science pun. It's exactly John's brand of humor. It's cheesy and bad, but you snort anyways. As an afterthought, you check the upper levels of the closet and pull out a towel, just in case he hasn't dried off yet.

Having retrieved dry clothing successfully, you fucking nope your way out of the house. John's your best bro and all, but you have a feeling that you fit the bill for punk teen well enough in this cozy suburban neighborhood (even though you're like, 25, but whatever), and you're suspicious-looking enough that you wouldn't blame the neighbors if they called the cops on you for breaking in if you'd lingered any longer. 

It'd be a dick move, yeah, but understandable. Fair.

The drive back to The Prospit is as uneventful as the drive before it, and you start to think about how you don't really know why you're going to these lengths for John. It's just what good friends, good bros, it's what they do, you reason, and you kick any dissenting thoughts to the curb. 

The cafe is thankfully just as empty as it was when you left it, and John's head pops out of the employees-only room when you enter, the bell on the door chiming as if to announce your appearance.  
You barely have time to think before you set down the clothes on the nearest table and a very wet, very blue blur that is probably John tackles you in a hug. A totally manly yelp escapes your mouth because wow his hands are cold and actually you sort of think that his moist embrace (eugh) is soaking your clothes and yep, that is a stain creeping up your sleeve . Suddenly he lets go of you, muttering curse words frantically under his breath. 

"Oh shoot! Sorry, sorry, instinct. I didn't realize…. shit." 

You now have a suspiciously John shaped water stain on your shirt, and John looks very guilty about it. Come to think of it, he's soaked to the bone, which is strange. When you left, he'd had a fair amount of chocolatey sludge dripping off of him. Now, the only thing he's dripping is water, and there's no sign of the chocolate anywhere.

You say he looks like a drowned rat, and he pouts.

"Jade and Jane teamed up and pulled a fast one on me! Bucket on top of the door and all, except this time it was actually filled with water." He lights up when he sees you brought a towel, and you mentally fistbump yourself. You think he would've tried to hug you if it didn't risk you getting even wetter. 

The coldness of your newly soaked shirt clings against your skin, and you involuntarily shiver. John pauses from drying his hair with the towel and stares at you. His gaze makes you feel uncharacteristically vulnerable, and you are suddenly very grateful for the shield your shades provide.  
He remarks that now you're wet, and man, this whole situation is practically begging for at least one dirty joke. So instead of acknowledging that you are in fact, wet, you slip in an underhanded "That's what she said," and laugh at the face John makes, shivering silently all the while.  
He dries off his hands and reaches for the clothes, but he frowns in confusion when he sees both the hoodie and the shirt. John turns to you, the perplexed expression still in place.

"Dave? Why'd you bring a pullover with a shirt?"

Now you're the one confused. That combination of clothing was perfectly normal, as far as you could tell, but John's face said otherwise.

"Why… wouldn't I..? That's how it's meant to be worn, ain't it?" You mime putting on a shirt, then pulling the hoodie on top, which makes you kinda feel like a shitty snotnosed kid playing charades. At that thought, you immediately stop. Your point is already made. "Y'know. Like that." 

He doesn't seem convinced, wrinkling his nose at you. "Nnnno? You wear the pullover solo, with nothing under it? Man, it's way too warm to be wearing two layers."

You might have gaped a bit at that. "Warm? Warm? Dude, it's 55 degrees. The hell?"

John squints at you questioningly until he has a sudden realization which makes him roll his eyes and sigh "Oh, southerners," and you feel mildly attacked. You are so busy elaborating on how attacked that makes you feel and it's not your fault that Washington is balls deep in the north that you are, for once in your life, caught off guard by John. He shoves the pullover into your arms and you stumble backwards.

"Hey! Fuckin' rude, Egbert, your ma never teach you to not interrupt someone who's talking?"

"Not rude! I'm offering you my pullover, numb nuts, since your shirt is wet and your delicate southern flower body can't handle even 55 degree weather!"

You begrudgingly take the clothing from him, though not before thanking him in the best way your emotionally stunted self can without physically combusting into a dumpster fire.

"Thanks. Asshole."

"Bitch." He responds in kind, grinning. You're glad your message seemed to have gotten through.

"Cunt!" You head off towards the customers-only bathroom to change, lobbying another fond insult over your shoulder.

"Dick!" He calls after you, and it's the last thing you hear before you lock the bathroom door behind you.

The first thing you do is quickly peel off your soaked shirt. You hold the shirt up to the artificial light of the single bathroom and grimace. Damn. You liked this shirt, but right now, it looks like a mess. You've been meaning to take a trip to the laundromat anyways. Wringing your sodden shirt out the best you can over the sink and draping it carefully on the doorknob, you shift your focus to the pullover John shoved onto you.   
Your shades are gently set down on the edge of the sink, and you stare at the hoodie intently. Maybe it'll tell you something, like why the fuck your heart feels like it's trying to hammer its way out of your bare chest. Unfortunately, it's an useless inanimate piece of cloth, and even if it did hold the secrets to the fuckin' universe or some shit, it couldn't tell you, because it's a hoodie and incapable of speech.

You eye it suspiciously anyways. A moment passes until you remember that you are still conspicuously shirtless, and goddamn you are pale. The only thing to disrupt the glaring paleness is the tiny brown splotches of skin that trail down from your face to your torso, clustering together occasionally like an ugly patchwork of freckles. The reflection in the mirror scrutinizes you back with those sickly bright red eyes set in the familiar face staring back at you. 

The color red is a good one, probably your favorite like you'd told John ages ago, but there was just something about the particular shade of your eyes that was eerily unnatural. You reflect wryly that any myspace teen from 2008 would've killed for naturally red eyes, but you reassure the hypothetical killer emo teenager in your brain that eyes this shade isn't all it's cracked up to be. That's why you wear the shades. Fucked up eye color and fucked up light receptors.   
Your finger lightly brushes under your eyes, dragging slightly down the skin as you wonder if John will think your eyes are freaky. He'd probably be fascinated, the weirdo. He'd get up real close to study them, his gaze boring into your own, his lips breathing soft air near your own— 

Stop that. 

Your hand drops back from your face swiftly to hang limply at your side. You pull the blue hoodie over your head as fast as you can and turn away from the mirror, snatching your shades back from the edge of the sink. They're crammed back onto the bridge of your nose a bit rougher than you usually are with them.  
You don't think about how John's clothing smells like coffee grounds and lemon detergent.  
(you do.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 55°F is nice weather suck it up buttercup
> 
> anw love jane crocker or die by my hands
> 
> updates sporadically (aka when the writing demon possesses me and makes me blurt out 3k words on a whim and then leaves without warning)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> here comes miss lalonde! the psychoanalyst one, not the fun one. and a whole bunch of weird feelingz shit

It's been four weeks since he lent you his hoodie, and you might just be a little bit selfish. To be fair, he doesn't bring the topic up, even when you wear it for a week straight to the cafe because fuck if Washington isn't freezing and like the dumbass you are, you have mostly summer shirts. So until you remind yourself to go shopping, you use John's sweatshirt to your advantage.  
It's warm. And soft. You're just being smart about things, it would be stupid to freeze to death on the streets of Seattle. Terrible way to die, not ironic enough for you. You think the only death worse than that would be falling down the Penrose staircase. Shit goes on forever, man, your corpse would be thump-thump-thumping down those stairs until the sun eventually explodes. 

John doesn't know about the Penrose staircase, which is both a travesty and a testament to the utter crap quality of the American education system rolled up into one disappointing package.

"It's an infinite staircase, it just keeps on going, bro. You ever heard of my man M.C Escher? Or like that indie game Monument Valley?"

"Uh. No? To both?"

"Uncultured. Damn."

Despite his lack of knowledge in certain areas, he more makes up for it in his knowledge and enthusiasm for board games. You, being a tiny little baby in the vast world of board games, do not know anything past Monopoly and other Monopoly-adjacent games, but John is determined to teach you. 

Seven Wonders Duel has a simple enough play interface, he says, sorting through the unfamiliar cards. It's custom made for two, and easy for beginners. You scoff at the last add-on, which is definitely a jab at your lack of experience judging by the look in John's eyes, but you pull the instruction guide closer to you anyways.  
He's right. It is simple, and you soon find yourself head to head with John in terms of competition, despite his reluctance to go super tough on you at the beginning. Every deficit a player suffers is announced by the other player with a smug look on their face, and John attempts to sneak in nickels as tokens multiple times, the tricky pranksterfuck. You flick the nickels off the table as retaliation.

In the end it is your victory, and though Egbert tries to claim "beginner's luck", you know he's just being a sore loser.

After another month, John seems to be content to let you keep the hoodie forever. He doesn't bring it up in casual conversation even when you are blatantly wearing it in front of him, and that is often, considering that the temperature has definitely dropped since last month. You've finally bought some warmer clothes more suitable for a northern winter, but the pullover just seems more comfortable.  
It does come with the consequence of Jade and Jane side-eying you very, very hard when they see you in it.

Coincidentally, this is the month Rose Lalonde (your nosy psychologist sister who you're also fairly sure dabbles in dark magic from time to time) chooses to fly in her witchy psychoanalyzing ass from across the country to tell you about everything you're fucking up.

Well, not solely for that reason, you guess, but she is still visiting you.

One cold Thursday afternoon, you drive a whole twenty minutes to Seattle-Tacoma International Airport to pick her up. You don't hold up a sign for her or anything, mostly because you forgot to make one in time and you are silently mourning your loss because that would be an incredibly ironic thing to do, but you are pretty noticeable what with your shades and cool demeanor. Out of the corner of your eye, you spot an unmistakable flash of platinum blonde hair held back with a familiar black headband at the baggage claim.  
Rose doesn't blink as you flashstep behind her, but she acknowledges your presence without even turning from retrieving her suitcase.

"Hello, Dave. Unusually Dirk-like of you to flashstep behind me without warning."

"If this visit is going to consist of you comparing me to Dirk every chance you get, you can fly your ass back to New York, Lalonde."

"And I will. In a week."

Oh, joy is you. You get to deal with the snarky broad for a week. Cue the canned audience cheers.

On the drive back to your tiny hole-in-the-wall, you talk a lot but say very little, like you always do, and Rose listens to you ramble, like she always does. She's probably taking notes on your psyche and secret inner turmoil in her fetishistic little black notebook, except she hadn't brought it with her this trip, so you suppose all of the notes are mental.  
When she sees your apartment and all of the clutter you couldn't be bothered to clean, she merely sighs.

Hypocrite. You know her own room is just as messy. 

"You kept the dead stuff?"

"Fuck yeah I did. Was a pain in the ass to get it through the TSA when I first came here. So were the swords, to be honest."

"I can imagine."

You ask if she'll be staying at your apartment and she shakes her head no. She'll be staying at the motel down the road, she says, but she'll still rely on you to show her around town. You grumble something about hey, never took you for a fuckin' tourist, Lalonde, and she shrugs.  
You would've shown her around town anyways.

On the third day of her visit, you take her to The Prospit.  
A board game cafe? she questions as she trails behind you, her brow furrowed in confusion. As John pops out from behind the counter to greet you but quickly vanishing after seeing Rose, you can practically feel a knowing smile creep onto her face.  
You really hate how perceptive she is sometimes.

Jade's eyes are confused, but she still greets the both of you with a smile. She knows your order by heart now, but you've brought a hitch in the usual flow of things by bringing Rose here. You can feel her curious gaze on your back as you retreat towards your usual table, receipt in hand.

"This place is quite cozy."

"Mm." You grunt noncommittally, pulling your coffee nearer and hungrily soaking up the warmth emitting from it. Stupid Seattle weather and its stupidly low temperatures. Goddamn.

"Of course, we both know this isn't the only reason you come here, right?"

You'd just raised the cup to your lips to take a sip, but you set it down with an annoyed clatter at Rose's prying.  
"Who says I come here often?"

"The employees know you." Damn, she got you there. 

"Can't a guy just want some coffee without an underlying psychological trauma driving it?"

Rose rolls her eyes at you. "I wasn't going to suggest that in particular. I was talking about that boy at the counter."

John's right behind you. You can feel his presence, but whenever you turn to look, he's not there. So you play dumb.  
"Jade's a girl."  
Not that dumb, idiot.

She gives you A Look (tm) and you pointedly ignore it in favor of staring into the murky brown depths of your coffee mug.  
Dave, honestly, she sighs, and you mock her sigh, moodily swishing around the liquid in your cup. You shouldn't have brought her here. This was a bad idea. Should've just took her to the normal touristy spots of Seattle.

As you slouch down into your seat, you spot the approach of Jade's beat up sneakers and you look up into her polite, customer service expression. She slides Rose's cup of tea off her serving tray onto the table, and before she leaves, you tap her on the arm.

"Where's John?" You ask quietly, as Rose pretends not to eavesdrop. 

She gives you a suspicious look.   
"He's in the back, working?"

"Damn. I was hoping he'd save me from being picked apart by my sister, but I guess if he really is busy?"

"Hm. Sisterrr." She rolls the word thoughtfully, and you wonder idly why the fuck she chose to fixate on that part specifically. Hell, Jade missed the chance to jump on the fact that you were being picked on. You can't shake the feeling that you're being left out of the loop.

The feeling follows you as you stand up, casually excuse yourself to the bathroom, and spend the next five minutes being a dick to anyone who might need to actually piss by hanging out in the bathroom for longer than necessary. You message an idle John a stupid video or two before you decide that that was a normal amount of time to spend in a bathroom without being given weird looks when you came out.  
Not that anybody would care to give you a weird look anyways, people probably had better things to do than to care if some skinny white blond dude stayed in the bathroom for too long.

Once you come out, you are greeted with a strange sight. John (john!!! that's john he's here he's here he's not avoiding you, a part of your brain screams, and you kick it in the ankles until it gets quieter) is seated across from Rose, discussing something with her. His brow is furrowed, and the turn of his lips curves downwards in a mixture of some sort of confusion and sadness.   
You flashstep fast enough to overhear some frustratingly vague conversation— I don't know, John had said with that conflicted face, and Rose, the ever cryptic witch, had replied with a quiet "You'll figure it out,"— what the fuck could that even mean? Rose acknowledges your presence gracefully, briefly looking at you out of the corner of her eye. John, however, isn't accustomed to your flashstepping yet, and jumps in his seat when you appear.

"Jegus, Dave!" He splutters, and you quirk your lips up in an easy smirk, before settling back into your seat as nonchalantly as you can.

"Hey yourself, man." You glance at Rose, hoping to get a clue about their prior conversation, but her face seems as inscrutable as ever. "You know Rose?"

He shrugs.   
"No? I just thought I'd talk to her, since you kinda ditched her."

"How could you abandon me on our lovely sibling outing, David. I'm absolutely devastated." Rose says dryly, and you flip her off lazily, sliding into the seat next to John. John lets out a mock scandalized gasp and punches you in the shoulder with a light joke about your lack of chivalry. You retort that chivalry is dead, and a playful back-and-forth between you and John ensues. 

You make small talk with them for a while, the quality of conversation vastly improved with John thrown into the mix. Unlike you'd predicted months ago (damn, has it really been that long since you'd met him?), John is able to hold his own against Rose, just by spouting the most inane bullshit you've ever heard. Watching Rose dive to try and salvage what the fuck his inner psyche is like from his lengthy analysis of Nick Cage's entire filmography is like watching a polar bear waiting by a hole in the ice to try to grab a seal when it pops up for air, except the polar bear has a college degree in psychology and the seal is herp-a-derping its way out of the hungry predator's claws while rattling off a detailed summary of National Treasure.

It's entertaining, to say the least.

After squeezing as much information from John as she could, Rose turns to her favorite target; you.  
Fun!   
"It seems Washington has really changed you," she remarks between sips of tea. "Though blue isn't really your color."   
You wonder what in the everloving hell is she talking about, until you look down and realized you'd chosen that day to wear John's hoodie.   
Goddamnit.

Before you can respond, John barges into your conversation.   
"Yeah, it's not really his color! His color's red."   
You open your mouth to say something like, wow, I'm flattered, or to argue that fuck him, blue is totally your color, anything's your color if you wear it, but he continues.   
"Besides, that's my hoodie he's wearing." Ah. Well, shit. Rose will be on your case for ages now, thanks John.

Prick.

John doesn't seem to sense your sudden moodiness, or maybe he does, and he just assumes it's part of your personality (it might as well be at this point), and he continues to prattle on about his shitty taste in movies.   
Though you're staring downwards into your empty coffee cup, you can sense Rose's expression from across the table. That patient smile, with a dash of smug superiority at her own wisdom. Fucking infuriating.  
Rose keeps on giving you that certain look, when you say goodbye to John before leaving, when you offhandedly text John a totally ironic TikTok compilation as you're dutifully showing Rose around the touristy spots, even when you're driving her back to her hotel at the end of the day.

Even with Rose's all-knowing omnipotent gaze on you twenty-four-seven, you still can't help wondering what exactly they were talking about when you were gone. He'd known her personally for a total of about five minutes, what on earth would they talk about? The snippet of conversation you'd overheard sounded like a real heart-to-heart and you knew John was pretty much a friendly extroverted goober, but enough to confide in a complete stranger? That was a stretch. The thought tugs on your brain until you finally give in and ask.

"What were you and John talking about when I was gone?"

"I'm sorry, I can't talk about it. Patient confidentiality." Rose replies, straightfaced. Really pulling out the professional terminology, you note wryly, and she shrugs.

"It might surprise you that he brought that up first before I could say anything about it."

You feel just a little bit hurt that'd he'd come to Rose before he'd come to you. Seriously? You're his best bro, obviously he doesn't have to tell you anything, but it kinda stings that whatever it is, he doesn't trust you enough to tell you. Your hold on the wheel tightens slightly as you dwell on the subject for way longer than you probably should.  
Rose notices your death grip on the steering wheel and sighs.  
"I figured it'd go like this. It's just something he needs to take in and process on his own. I'm sure he'll tell you in his own time."

Ugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do i know how to cut off chapters? no. also i smooch rose lalonde. shez valid. chapters update when i remember to


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> two conversations dave strider would rather not be having! he's having them anyways sucks to be him

Rose is right.  
Because she always is, though you'll never tell her that to your face.  
A week after she leaves on a plane back to New York, he tells you.  
The two of you are playing Fog Of Love, because John had rejected your suggestion of Uno ("Dave, I said interesting two player games." "Hey, fuck you, Uno is as interesting as it gets.").   
You're pretty skeptical of this game. It advertises itself as a romcom board game, which is like, what the hell does that even mean? 

Because neither of you want to play a girl for that heterosexual romance, both of you agree to play a gay relationship, though John doesn't seem very sure. When the characters turn out incredibly similar to you and him, though you seem to be playing the John-adjacent character for some reason, you curse the irony gods silently. The irony gods laugh in your face and make the backstory a meeting at a coffee shop. You literally could not make this shit up.

You're aimlessly moving around tokens when he says, completely out of the blue, "Dave, what's compulsory heterosexuality?"

You choke on your drink. He reaches out to you in worry because you're coughing quite intensely and nope you're good you're cool you're chill. After your impromptu coughing fit passes, you answer to the best of your ability.

"Well. It's like." You pause to think of an appropriate example. One hits you straight off the bat. "Your dad hung up those dumb jester pictures around the house, do you like them?"

He scowls at you, probably mildly confused because you've definitely had this conversation before. "Dude, obviously not. I've said this before."

"Right, yeah, I remember."

Besides, who on Earth would ever like those stupid clown doll things, he remarks, and you have mild war flashbacks to Lil Cal, sitting innocently in Dirk's room. No idea, you say, but let's move on the the real point here.

"But he thinks you like them."

"Yyyes?"

"Did you ever feel pressured to like them because he thought you did?" God you sound like Rose. You resolve to pepper in enough "bro"s and "dude"s so you don't sound like Rose.

"I mean, a little bit. I felt bad that he went to all of that trouble and then had to learn I didn't even like harlequins. I don't know where he got the idea from."

"Probably cuz you're a clow—" He shoves you before you can finish, and you let out an undignified squawk and grab at the table to steady yourself. "Man. Uncool."

He waves his hand dismissively and asks for you to continue.

"Okay. What if everyone else liked harlequins, and you were supposed to like harlequins too, but you didn't? What if you were expected to grow up and always have a harlequin doll near you?"

"I'd feel…… terrible, I guess. I don't want to spend the rest of my life with a creepy doll. What's the point?"

You cannot believe this guy. This metaphor is way obvious. "Dude. Replace every mention of the clown dolls with someone of the opposite gender. That, my friend, is comp het. It's a real bitch."  
You thought that was a pretty good metaphor, but John still looks confused. Maybe you need to clarify a bit more? So you sigh and begrudgingly continue.  
"Compulsory heterosexuality is when you're gay and society is like 'hey! you gotta like girls to be normal' and you don't like girls like that but you pretend you do anyways so you don't feel like a freak. It can be conscious or subconscious, but comp het crushes are mostly on someone you know is out of your league, like a celebrity."

"Can it be on lesbian friends?"

"….. Sure?"

John sighs, muttering something along the lines of "That counts for two, then," You ask a more pressing question, the game between you two totally forgotten. "Why did you need to know?" You have your own suspicions, obviously, but you want to hear it straight from him.

"Rose brought up the term in our conversation." He chuckles sheepishly, leaning back in his chair. 

"Why?" You press, and his smile falters. 

"Well, I'd been, um, having some thoughts — are you uncomfortable with talking about sexuality?"

"I just explained compulsory heterosexuality to you. We are playing a gay couple in this romcom board game. C'mon, man. Obviously not."

"Rrrright." He waves his hand vaguely. "Just some thoughts. I've experimented with guys before, but I dunno."

"You've experimented…... with guys…" you say slowly, trying to process that. Your brain is absolutely not functioning with that input.

John eyes you warily, like he's afraid you're gonna judge him. Bang the gavel down on the table and declare him guilty of being a homosexual or something. Shit, your law metaphors have not improved. At least you didn't say it out loud this time.

"Chill, chill, judgment free zone here. I just didn't take you for the type."

"Well, I am, I guess!" He snaps at you, and you maybe hit a sore spot there. Just as soon as he snaps, he slumps back into his seat, looking a little listless and quite frankly, miserable.   
"Sorry. Sorry. Didn't mean to do," he does a vague hand gesture, "y'know. That."

"It's cool. I know it's a sensitive topic."

"Can we just?" He takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly. "Okay. I might be a…. homosexual. Or have homosexual tendencies." He's looking up through his eyelashes at you, waiting to see your reaction.

"Cool."

"Cool?"

"Yeah. Just say gay, though. 's a bit wordy if you say 'Homosexual' all the time." It doesn't matter if he's gay or not. He's still not interested in you? The best you can do is be a supportive friend.

John nods in response, though now he's just staring at the board and not meeting your gaze. You decide, hey, fuck it, this could not get any more awkward, and you say, "Besides, now we match."

"…..What?"

"Two gay guys walk into a cafe. One's the coolest guy you'll ever meet and a really great friend for bothering to come out to his other friend……. and the other is John Egbert."

He snorts weakly and swats at you lightly from across the table, though he seems a little stunned. "Dick."

"You know what they say; you are what you eat." The crude implications of your joke quickly catch on with John and he groans loudly, kicking you under the table.

You kick him back in retaliation, and suddenly, the air feels lighter. The heavy awkwardness of the whole situation has mostly evaporated, because man, who cares if John's gay, or you're gay? Feelings or no feelings, the two of you are still good friends, and sexuality shouldn't change that one bit.

Yeah.

Not one week later after that conversation, you're cornered by Karkat. You're just hanging out in the cafe, waiting for John to finish his shift when he suddenly appears at your table.

"Strider."

Your brow raises in slight alarm. "Can't remember my first name. I see how it is."

"I can. I can. Shut up." You're amused by how easy it is to rile him up, though your amusement dwindles slightly when he says his next words. "So I have a question for you."

"Make it quick, I haven't got all day." You kick your feet up on the table exaggeratedly, picking under your non-existent nails. You do a mocking impression of a snooty celebrity, aiming to sound like the most uppity bitch you can. "I'm a very busy man, Vantas."

"Get your shitstain maggot feet off of the table or I will cut your throat."

Your feet hastily go back under the table, and your hand motions for him to continue with his question. You don't even know what kind of question Karkat has to ask you. Maybe he wants you to stop distracting his hottest employee. Sucks to be him then. 

"Are you dating John?"

Oh. Okay.   
Hm.  
You vaguely remember John saying something about Karkat always giving him relationship advice because he thought you and him were dating. So either he'd wised up to the fact that you two were just Guys Being Dudes, or… actually, this sounded like Karkat was trying to feel out the area. You know, scope to see if John was single and then shoot his shot.

"Yes. I'm macking all over that sweet face and bod. I call him honeybun dearest and we snuggle every night."

"Could've just said no."

You shrug, your head lolling to one side. "More fun this way."

"You want to date him, though." He says it matter-of-factly, like he already knows. That's a little irritating. He doesn't know shit.

"Gross." Your face flushes despite yourself, and you adjust your sunglasses to better hide it.   
"Me, the one and only Dave Strider? I'm hot shit. Egbert wishes he had a piece of me. I'm cool, I'm dope, I'm flyer than a seagull on two pounds of heroin. Hell, I'd date me if I had the chance. Make out with my alternate timeline self. You can't tell me that wouldn't be hot, yeah? Bet that's someone's kink."

Karkat throws his hands up in the air exasperatedly. You can practically see the smoke come out of his ears, and his face is growing redder with anger by the second. 

"Well! If you want to be a fucking clown about it!"

"Dude."

"Oh, sorry, what was that? I couldn't hear it over your giant asswipe clown shoes squeaking and the honking from the fucking red clown nose on your stupid pissguzzling face!"

"Huh. Pissguzzling is a new one."

He scowls at you, probably angry that you seem to be deflecting his point. You're not deflecting, though, just….. avoiding? Yeah. He seems pissed at you nevertheless. 

"Admit it."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Inner Terezi advises you to take plausible deniability, and you follow her advice, because she's the token law student. Then you remember that Inner Terezi is separate from Real Law Student Terezi and that you are not a law student, so neither is Inner Terezi.  
Also, you shouldn't take advice from a legally blind girl that eats chalk, regardless of prior qualifications or not.  
Goddamnit.  
Where'd you even get the phrase 'plausible deniability' from? Are you using it in the right context? Dear lord.

Musing over the complex workings of Inner Terezi is giving you more of a headache than Karkat is, so you reluctantly turn your attention to the lesser of two evils. He seems to notice that you've spaced out on him, and his creased brow has softened only slightly. 

"Listen. I've seen all of this before. So it's probably in your best interest if you actually hear me out, fuckwit."

Your curiosity gets the best of you. "Seen all of this?"

He makes a face at you, like a petulant little kid. Baby Karkat. Karbabie. You briefly wonder how his head would look photoshopped onto one of those stock photos of grumpy chubby babies. Jade would probably send you an adequate picture of Karkat for that purpose.  
"Well, yeah. Believe it or not, I'm just as straight as you."

"Which is not at all."

"That was the point, you shitspewing asswad. Shut your goddamn face flesh tunnel for one second and let me talk."

You shut up because you are a nice person and, haha, no you're not. But you'll shut up anyways.  
Karkat wants to talk about John, that's why he's cornered you, obviously, but you're still struggling to understand what he means.

"I dated John."

Oh. Well, there's your answer, you guess. A lot of thoughts flood your brain, like isn't John straight-sort-of-maybe-kind-of? and wow, John has terrible taste in guys, you hope it extends to you.

Seeing your incredulous look, Karkat quickly clarifies.  
"Well, I don't think he would've classified it as dating. To him, it was experimenting."

Ah. And there's the kicker! If John hadn't thought of it as dating, why did Karkat? The answer is an unpleasant relevation, the words feel like ice cubes trailing down your back.  
"It wasn't that to you, was it?" The words come out harsh, more like a statement of the undeniable fact rather than speculation. It's bitter in your mouth, but it comes tumbling out.

He doesn't deny it, in fact, he doesn't say anything at all. The bitter taste in your mouth lingers because you can so easily imagine yourself in the same position. In another world, maybe you'd agree to help John figure out some things, in a futile attempt to get rid of the constant pang in your own chest. The thorns and chains digging into your heart would tighten as you spent more and more time doing things with him that were almost what you really wanted but not quite. You don't think you'd last a month in that sort of unfulfilling relationship.

You look at Karkat with a newfound empathy, and he turns away.  
"Don't fucking pity me. You're acting like it was a flaming clusterfuck of shit, but it wasn't all terrible." Despite the tone he takes, a tinge of sadness laces his words, and your heart aches in sympathy.

"Does it ever go away?" You ask quietly, unusually vulnerable. You feel if Karkat bared this part of his soul to you, it's only right if you do the same thing.

He hesitates. The silence carries a long way.   
"No."   
The word is spoken with such finality, that you know he's thought about this before.

"So you—"

"Yeah."

"Okay."

"You're good for him. You have a chance." Karkat says, his face sincere. You want to argue, no, I don't deserve him, John doesn't need me, but the look on Karkat's face shuts you up. He wholeheartedly believes this, and he's trying his best to help you out despite his own issues. You'd be a real fucking jerk to deny it. Instead of denying it outright, you shove your hands in the pockets of your hoodie (his hoodie) and look away, deflecting.

"If you say so."

An awkward beat of silence passes. Neither of you are sure what to say. What do you even say in a situation like this? Shit, is there a wikihow on how to talk to your crush's sort-of-ex who still has feelings for them but is encouraging you to go for it anyways? Probably, there's a wikihow for everything, you think wryly.

"Damn that Egbert charm."   
You sigh finally, slumping against the wall. Karkat huffs in exasperated agreement from the opposite side of the room. 

"Right? Why in the globefondling fuck did I have to like HIM of all people?"

"Because he's real fuckin' cute when he smiles, and also could probably crush me with his arms, and that's hot. Super hot."

"His glasses should make him look like the vapid dweeby doucheshit that he is. It's fucking unfair, that's what it is."

"Amen, preach to the damn choir, Vantas. Unfair." You echo back, and the two of you commiserate like the lovesick losers you are over John Egbert the unattainably oblivious.

It isn't really unfair, he doesn't owe you anything. It just .. hurts. When his hand brushes against yours and he laughs so hard at your deadpan jokes that you're a tiny bit happier just looking at him, it stings in the best way possible. It makes your heart do fucking loopdeloops and aggressive cartwheels in your chest, and it's kind of sad how fast he's wormed himself into your life. 

You've always prided yourself in not giving a shit about anyone else. 

Until John, you guess. 

It's stupidly cliche, how you lie in bed in his hoodie and think about holding his hand like some sort of lovestruck teenage idiot. Get yourself together, Dave, you're a goddamn grown man. Just when you think you've sorted things out, he comes in with that bucktoothed grin that should be ugly as hell but it just makes you want to kiss him to feel his smile on your lips.

Ugh.  
You're in deep.  
You probably should've realized this sooner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nooooo i didn't forget about this totally i am a functional human being who remembers that they post stuff. yes. absolutely. updates when my brain decides to work again.  
> also here comes the past johnkat choo choo that's what the tag was for


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the chinese new year chapter that's three months overdue and that nobody asked for. dave the white boy gets Cultured and john is wasian cause i said so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sweats. hiiii. heeyyy. how y'all doin. long time no see..... fef stans look away i did your girl so ooc i'm so so sorry. leave hate comments,

One brisk January afternoon, John comes practically dancing into work. You've since abandoned your schedule and said fuck it to coming to the Prospit at normal hours, so you're already sitting at your usual table. Your job is at the literal dead hours of night anyways, it's not like you have anything better to do.   
He darts into the cafe grinning, which is better than any cup of coffee to start your day. Before you can say anything to him, he throws a red envelope with golden cartoon dragons and foreign characters printed on it at you.

"Gong hei fat choy!" He crows at you, and you have to double check that you're not, like, hallucinating, because you're pretty sure those are not real English words.

"That's because they're not! English, I mean." He's turned to hand Jade at the counter a little red packet like yours with a quieter "xīn nián kuài lè" now that some customers are trickling in. Jade seems nonchalant about it, tucking the red envelope in her apron pocket and smiling back at John. He highfives her, then skids over to you.

"It's Canto," he says, and you have no idea how to inform him that you don't know what that is. He seems to understand your confusion because he quickly elaborates. "Cantonese. It's a dialect of Chinese. I'm Chinese."   
Realization dawns, and you nod. You always thought John looked vaguely Asian, but you guess his blue eyes mean he's mixed. You ask why the red envelopes, and he slides into the seat across from you, steepling his hands. 

"Okay Dave, let me explain you a thing. Today is Chinese New Year! Well, the start of it, at least. Heh. It's customary for the elders to hand out red envelopes to the younger, but since me and Jane and Dad are only three people, we're bending the tradition a little bit. I give out envelopes to people I know that are younger than me, even by just a couple months, and the older people have to give me envelopes."   
He twists around in the chair to shout in the general direction of the kitchen. "And SOMEONE hasn't GIVEN me their red envelope yet!" A distant clatter of pots and pans follows his proclamation and a flour-speckled Jane comes out of the kitchen brandishing a cast iron pan.

"Kowtow for it then."

"What? No, I'm not kowtowing, that's embarrassing! For one, who the hell does that anymore, and secondly, you're not even that much older than me anyways!"

"It's tradition, John, stop disrespecting your elders, god. So disrespectful. I can't believe it. What would Nanna say?" 

"I'm obviously Nanna's favorite grandchild, so I think she'd agree with me!"

"Disrespectful AND delusional. Wow!"

You watch the playful cousin banter with amusement, and finally John throws up his hands in the air in defeat and proceeds to kneel on the cafe floor and bow so low his forehead grazes the floor in front of a smug looking Jane. She tosses a bright red packet at his head, which he picks up immediately. He slinks back to his previous seat, a fond irritation in his sullen expression.

"The things I do for my culture…" He complains, though he still carefully slides the envelope into his apron pocket.

"What's even in these things?" You dangle the envelope John practically pelted you with from two fingers as if to underline your point.

"Money," he hums happily in reply. "And it's supposed to be lucky too."

"Huh. How does that work?"

"Dunno. It's tradition, dude, don't question it!" You open your mouth to object but he quickly paps it shut. "Shh. Sh sh shhhhhh. No questions."

The packet feels light in your hand, and you shove it into your jean pocket for later inspection. John continues to talk, though now his spare hand is kind of flapping back and forth on the table. One of his nervous ticks. Maybe you do pay too much attention to what he does.  
"Anyways, it's celebrated by going to festivals in the street, giving out red envelopes, having big family dinners, et cetera, you know? ……. Would you like to, uh, come to one? The family dinner, I mean."

He seems to sense your apprehension, because he quickly moves to reassure you before you can jokingly play the invite off.   
"It's fine if you don't, but everyone who works at the cafe is invited and there's some extended family too, but overall we're just encouraged to bring friends because my dad likes to cook. A lot. And leftovers are great, but they do start to smell weird after a while. You're practically family anyways!"  
Lovely. You've been familyzoned! 

You might just do it for the free food.   
Hey, you're a young adult. You'll take what you can get. Food sounds fucking fantastic, especially if Dadbert cooks as well as Jane bakes. You eventually settle on a cool nod of agreement and John brightens instantly. 

"Cool cool cool. See you there at 8? You have my address, right?" Before you can even grunt in response, Karkat's ever grumpy voice rings out from the back room and John practically waltzes back to his spot behind the counter.

At exactly 8:00 pm, you pull up in front of John's house for the second time. The driveway is occupied this time around, so you park haphazardly in front of the lawn and hope you don't get towed. Unlike the last occasion you were here, the lights are on in the window. Also unlike the last occasion, there are people noises going on in the house. You're a bit terrified of what those people noises entail. 

You've barely raised your hand to knock on the door when the door opens, a hand grabs you by the wrist and you are forcibly pulled inside. You may or may not have let out a squeaking noise that sounded a bit like a dog chew toy. The world will never know.  
The hand turns out to be a familiar one, and you're greeted by John's grinning face as you whirl around to face your attacker.  
"You came!"

"That's what he said," you reply on instinct, and regret immediately. Regret regret regret. Can we rewind and try again?  
You're lucky John's used to it by now, because he simply laughs and tugs you out of the hallway into the living room before letting go of your wrist.   
"Dumbass. Okay, so, uh, just stick with me here? Not that I don't trust you, but …. you don't know any Chinese, so." 

You shrug nonchalantly, surveying the room for the few people you recognize. There are….. a lot of people that look like John or Jane or some weird variant, but you're sure if you crane your neck enough that you can spot a Prospit employee. Ah. There's Karkat, milling around the aluminum trays of food. Spotted.

"Yeah man. Fine by me. Man, why are all Egberts hot? Do you have, like, an attractive gene that gives you good arms or something?" Ah. You said that out loud. Thankfully, John doesn't seem to mind, though he does glance questioningly at his own arms, which are pretty damn fit. 

"Arms? Weird turn on, but ….. okay, I guess? Don't fuck any of my relatives though."

No promises, you say gallantly, and he snorts, punching you on the shoulder before hustling you over to one of the many tables covered end to end in assorted food. Some of it you recognize, and some of it you decidedly do not, but it doesn't matter anyways when John is practically filling your plate for you.   
He's chattering along, something about the good foods and the bad foods, though honestly, it just looks like everything on the table is good food. Your standards are pretty low though, since you've been subsisting off of subpar canned and microwaveable foods for the longest time.

Your train of thought is momentarily derailed and crashed when John shoves the plate of food in your hand, holding his own in the hand that's not currently on your shoulder. He herds you over to the staircase, where both of you take seats on the steps a little bit away from the crowd and the socializing. Your body visibly relaxes, which he seems to notice.

"I don't want you to get too overwhelmed, because it is a lot, you know? We can play 'Meet The Relatives' another time, probably." 

"Or you want to hide our illicit affair from your doting family," you drawl playfully and he scowls at you, flushing slightly from embarrassment. 

"Shut up! Nevermind, I'm throwing you to Aunt Candace, have fun getting axe murdered." He takes a bite of his food, and you follow suit, though you poke furtively at the weirder looking bits of food until John reaches over and forks it into his own mouth. Mmm. Tastes like actual food. 

You're engrossed in trying to steal more chicken from his plate, so you don't hear the footsteps coming up the staircase until a pair of legs in fuchsia flats is right in front of your line of sight.   
"Excuse m— oh my god? Dave?"

You look up, and for maybe the hundredth time, you're incredibly glad for the shades that hide your eyes, because you are currently registering shock.   
"Peixes? No way." You set your plate down on the staircase to stand up and hold out a hand for a fistbump, which she takes and then immediately right after pulls you into a hug.

"My gosh! Strider, long time no see!" You're vaguely aware of John staring at the both of you, so you pull away from the hug to give Feferi an appraising once-over. She hasn't changed much from college, her cheerful grin still ever present. She's maybe a little bit taller, which isn't saying a lot.

"How do you know each other?" John questions, still sitting on the staircase. Your plate has been rescued from any unintentional stepping by his efforts, as it's now balanced on his lap. Mentally, you thank him.

"College," you answer simply, while Feferi goes, "He walked into the wrong class and sat for the entire lecture before I told him that Intro To Film was down the hall," in one entire breath before bursting into light giggles at the memory.

You turn your head towards her, hoping your expression can convey the utter feeling of betrayal you are feeling right now. So betrayed. John did not need to know that.   
Your look of betrayal does not make Feferi fall to the ground in shame and guilt. It probably makes her laugh even harder at you. 

Flushing slightly at the embarrassing story, you quickly turn the question back around at John. "How do you know Feferi?" 

"We're related," they both say in sync before John shouts "Jinx! Owe me a soda!" and Feferi whines in protest.  
You look back and forth between Feferi and John. You said before that everyone looked vaguely like each other, but these two look nothing alike, so you'll probably have to rescind that statement.

"….. I don't see it?"

Feferi oh so helpfully starts to draw out a family tree in the air with her finger while John just shrugs at you.   
"Okay! Soo…. Mr. Crocker, John's dad's brother, had another brother! That was my dad! Candace Peixes is my mom, and she married him but didn't take his last name. And then me and Meenah happened, so.…. we're cousins!"

You could've just said the last part, you say dryly, and Feferi smiles. "Patience, young padawan!" She announces, flicking you square on the forehead. You flick her back and sit back down in your place on the steps, squirrelling your plate of food back out of John's grasp.

"Sooooo…." she scrutinizes the both of you, placing her hands on her hips. "Are you two…"

Fef makes vague hand gestures at the two of you, and you squint in confusion as John seems to understand every non-verbal cue she throws out. He shakes his head no vigorously, a stubborn frown beginning to form on his face, and oh yep, you can understand the gesture Feferi is doing now. Mostly because it's the universally recognized sign of one hand making a circle, and the other hand's index finger sliding in and out of the circle repeatedly.   
Damn. Okay. Why does everyone think you're fucking? 'S not like you would mind particularly, but.

John mutters "No, no," frustratedly next to you. Your gaze flits over to him to see his eyebrows furrowing together. He's begun to nervously drum his fingers on his thigh, his expression tensed up. 

Yeah, you're a little out of place in this conversation, aren't you?

While the cousins are making odd facial expressions at one another as way of communication, you finish up your plate of food, and god, it's good. Maybe you can coax John into giving the leftovers to you so they can rot in your dirty apartment fridge forever. You discreetly look up behind your shades when they both actually start to talk again. Verbally. So you can eavesdrop.

"So, I know this little place downtown,"

"Feferi. F—"

"Joooohn. John. Listen to meee."

"It's not—"

"It's just a nice place to hang out! It doesn't have any implications or anything, and you can just, you know. It's a fun thing to do with a frieeend." Feferi exaggerates the word 'friend', rolling it out as long as she could. 

"…."   
John's unimpressed silence tells you everything you need to know.

"It's free tickets! I got a big social net, so I know a guy or two." She sing-songs, and you can see her hair bounce out of the corner of your eye. "One whale of a catch, if you ask me." 

You internally snap and finger gun at the fish puns. Marine biology major flex……?   
You glance over with the utmost discretion as the girl in question pulls out two tickets from the waistband of her skirt (has she been carrying those around the entire time? huh???) and waves them enticingly in front of John's face. He, in turn, slowly reaches out and takes them from her grasp, still giving her the stink eye. 

Well. Uh. He hasn't asked you yet, but you guess the two of you will be going…. somewhere.. together. At least judging by the conversation between the two cousins.  
Man, can you ever get a say in these things? Not like you'd… turn it down or anything, but damn. Would be nice to give a man a choice between spending time bonding with his best buddy or spending time lying face down on his couch wasting away until he has to go DJ at some dank ass club.   
Oh well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yeah anyways isn't it weird that feferi and john are related through the betty crocker thing. i think we should talk about that. this is a transitional chapter so forgive me but it does have some nice talk about genetic egbert hotness and ~culture~


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> writing this chapter made me homophobic. hate gay people. anyways! more gay people. in escape rooms! hate gay people love escape rooms

Turns out those free tickets were a one way ticket to hell.

Well. Not exactly. You're already getting a free one way ride on the choo choo express bullet train to Satan's red hot asshole, if the homophobes are to be believed. But that's not the point here.

To be very literal (and boring), the free tickets were two tickets to an escape room advertised as mystery-slash-horror. A fast pass to being trapped in an enclosed room with your Feelings target and maybe some fake blood stains. Sick.

Both John and yourself are otherwise perfectly content being stuck in a creepy room for an hour, him for reasons unknown and you because that was most of your childhood anyways. Damn those stupid puppets to puppet hell or wherever they go when they die. Puppets can't die, they're inanimate objects.   
You are an idiot. Why are you thinking about this?

John is strangely hyped to be doing an escape room. He's practically bouncing on his heels as the guide leads the two of you to the room you reserved. The guide, a tall ladylike woman with a sharp black haircut framing her kind face, gives you the rundown and the rules of the room. The scenario you will be playing is that the two of you are police detectives examining a suspicious therapist undercover as patients. People have been disappearing after visits to her, and the police have pinpointed her as the probable cause. The therapist has a very particular lunch schedule, and will be out for exactly an hour. During that hour, both of you must investigate as much as you can and get out before she finds you've been snooping around. 

Shockingly, when you enter the room, an actress, presumably playing the therapist in question, is sitting at the desk. John squeaks a bit in surprise, and your eyebrows raise behind your shades. She rises to tell you that if you're the new patients, sit and wait for her, it's her lunch break. Her heels clack and her short blonde hair brushes behind her as she exits the room, locking the two of you in. 

"…. Interactive!" John remarks.

"Hah. You almost pissed yourself when you saw the actress there."

"You weren't expecting it either!"

"Boys," the guide warns through the walkie talkie and you hold up your hands in surrender even though you're fairly sure whoever's guiding the two of you can't see your pose from the angle the security camera is at.  
You take a moment to survey the room. It looks like a typical therapist's office, with some strange additions here and there. There's a nameplate on the desk that reads "Rosalynd Lemonte" and you turn it over in your hands, examining it. No clues, but you expected that. 

You wiggle your eyebrows suggestively at John as he tugs on the doorknob behind him to check if it's locked (of course it's locked, it's an escape room, come on man). 

"....…. wanna play Seven Minutes In Heaven? We got an hour, so we can play it eight point seven five times, baaaabyyy." You drawl the last word, dragging it out.

It's ironic. The irony is practically dripping off the statement. It's not flirting if there's seven layers of complex irony that nobody will get piled over it. You're not jumping through weirdly complex hoops to justify any of your statements or being defensive. Not at all.

We should get to work on the puzzles, John says instead of answering you, rolling his eyes at your little joke and flitting over to the bookshelf. You reluctantly agree, dropping down on your knees to examine the desk. Damn. He didn't even respond to your fantastically quick mental math in that joke.   
Instead of dwelling on it, you turn your attention fully onto the desk. The little things help you, and you suddenly understand why people like escape rooms so much.  
A cipher is splayed out on top of the desk, and you find the radio's static sounds suspiciously like morse code. John hollers in triumph when he moves the cat statues on the bookshelf in the cardinal directions and a secret compartment of more books pops open.   
Your code turns out to be a string of numbers, 13407, while his secret compartment is full of occult books. You help John take out all of the books, the both of you seated crosslegged on the floor, and you pause when you light upon a strange one.

"Dude, this book is different from the rest."

He glances backwards, tilting his head and squinting in an effort to read it.   
" 'Seven Stages: How To Deal With Loss'. Dunno, Dave, seems like a pretty normal book for a therapist to have."

"No, but, I mean, in the middle of all these occult books? Wack."

"Maybe she misshelved it or something?"

Maybe, you say doubtfully. You flip it open, just in case, and wow, would you look at that. Files! Official looking papers are neatly arranged in a manila folder.   
Smugly, you notify John of your discovery and he grumbles something about you being a dingus. Despite his harsh words, he does scoot over and lean into you in an attempt to read the documents. 

The files are….. interesting to say the least. They contain the injury and subsequent death medical papers of one Kanya Marie Lemonte and one Vera Lemonte. The words on the pages are cold and clinical. Car crash. Blunt head trauma. Severe blood loss. Asphyxiation.  
John looks horrified.  
"The therapist had a wife? And a child?"

The walkie talkie crackles to life.  
"Yes. Look behind you."   
A portrait of a smiling family greets you as you turn. The therapist, and the two people in the medical files. The child, Vera, is making a funny face at the photographer as the parents smile fondly at her instead of the camera. Out of instinct, you get up and gently pull the frame, and it swings to reveal a safe.  
You try the morse code code, and it doesn't budge. Oh well. You guess everyone can't be a winner. John seems to be a little bit antsy behind you.

"I feel weird. This is a lot of personal stuff, should we really be doing this?" He fidgets with a different lock.

"Dozens of people have disappeared, we kinda have to investigate." You shoot back, rifling through a drawer to seize a box of cassette tapes. You neglect to mention that this is a fake scenario, mostly because you are feeling so totally immersed right now. The tapes are labeled from 13400 to 13410, and with a sudden burst of brainpower, you pick out the one labeled 13407.   
Your code! You are so fucking smart. Where's your Harvard scholarship? Tape 13407 is slid into the radio, and you listen in intrigue as the therapist and a supposed patient have an ….. interesting chat. The patient begs to 'not do this, i don't want to do this, dr. rosalynd,' while the therapist chants something cryptic and you can hear what sounds like a slight sniffle from the walkie talkie. You pick up the receiver.  
"Yo. You getting emotional over there?"

Another sniffle. "I just really like this story," the guide confides and you shrug. That's fair.  
John victoriously holds up a slip of paper with a bunch of numbers that you can't really see and goes to open the safe behind the family photo.

The time in the escape room speeds by much too fast for your liking. You decipher puzzle after puzzle with John, though sometimes the both of you hit a road block.   
Kanaya (the guide, she'd told you her name after you'd called her guide lady way too many times) was contacted for help and clues more times than you'd like to admit. She's also stopped you from taking apart the light fixture, because apparently you can't do that, it's not part of the escape room or something. John grumbles that they shouldn't have made it flicker like that then, and Kanaya says tiredly, for the last time, John, it's for the ambience. Her voice becomes a permanent presence in the room, even when you're not struggling. It's like she's working right beside you, except she knows all of the answers already and won't tell you.   
Rude.

With Kanaya's help, and yours and John's deductive skills combined, you manage to piece together the general story. Dr. Rosalynd Lemonte, professional therapist, had a wife and a child. One day, both died in a severe car crash, while Rosalynd herself was only given a mild concussion. After the deaths of her family, Rosalynd started spiraling and sought comfort in the occult. A local cult preying off of the mourning indoctrinated her into their religion, and convinced her that her wife and child were still alive, just in the form of demonic and supernatural beings.   
You still haven't quite figured out the disappearing people part, though, but you get the gist of it.

You've gone through every puzzle in the room, but the door hasn't been unlocked. Kanaya seems almost impatient with you. She keeps on giving you the same hint over and over; check the light. You tell her that unless she wants a repeat of John standing on a swivel chair trying to destroy the lighting infrastructure of the escape room, you don't know what the hell she's talking about.

Wait, John says thoughtfully. He flicks off the light, leaving the both of you in total darkness. Lo and behold, a glow in the dark pentagram is painted boldly on the floor.   
The two of you stare in astonishment as Kanaya laughs over the reciever. 

"I always love seeing player's reactions to that," she tells you with a note of satisfaction in her voice. You pace around the pentagram, and there seem to be strange spaces near the points of the star where the ground presses down if you step on it. John suggests that it might be pressure plates, and both of you go off blindly in search for things to hold the plates down.   
The occult books from before are dumped unceremoniously onto every point of the star. There's a soft click, and a trapdoor in the middle of the pentagram slides open with a hiss. You and John gape at the newly opened door, but the one to regain their bearings first is you.

"Well. Ladies first."

"Fuck off, Dave."

Kanaya clears her throat pointedly through the walkie talkie. "Boys. Twelve minutes left."  
Instead of being alarmed by the time limit's rapidly approaching deadline, John is wearing that specific grin of his. The grin that means he's about to do something stupid and pranksterly like the tricky man he is.

"You know what, Dave, you're right! Ladies first!" With that, he tosses the walkie talkie down the opening. Kanaya's annoyed groan carries from all the way down. You choose to stare incredulously at him.  
"Dude. We need that."  
I know, he grins, and you sigh. You clamber down the ladder to rescue Kanaya— well, the walkie talkie with Kanaya's voice, you have no doubt that the real Kanaya is alive and well and so very done with the two of you.  
As you reach the bottom and grab the reciever, you come to a realization. You tilt your head up to the trapdoor opening and glare as hard as you can at John from beneath your shades. 

"Was this just a ploy to get me down here first?"

He peeks into the opening and snickers quietly at your expression. 

"Heheh. Maybe. You caught me! Guilty as charged!"

You scowl at him. Luckily, the climb down isn't very far, so you're able to snag his arm with your free hand and pull him down with you. It takes every muscle in your skinny, stringy body, but it's so worth the surprised yelp he lets out as he's falling through. He does knock you down with him when he lands, but that's a price you're willing to pay.  
You smirk up at him, a little breathless from the exertion. "Got you back."  
He just kind of stares at you, wide eyed with an expression you can't name, and that's when you realize that he'd landed directly on top of you and his arms are in a position where it seems like he's pinning you to the floor.

Ah.

Your cheeks are now burning, and you're probably going to say something embarrassing and stupid if something short of a miracle doesn't happen right this second.  
A loud static buzzes from the receiver, and the both of you spring apart instantly. You hastily fix your hair and grab the receiver, praying to god that it was too dark in this room for the security camera to see anything. John gropes around blindly for the light, and when it flickers on, you're met with quite a sight. 

Body bags are stacked neatly in one corner of the room, and there's an operating table in the other. A door with a letter keypad stands at the opposite wall, which is probably your exit. The whole thing is strangely sterile for what you assume to be a secret murder lair, which sort of freaks you out even more. Logically, the body bags don't have bodies in them, and the slight flecks of dried blood on the operating table are just paint, but goddamn if this escape room doesn't pay attention to detail.  
John mumbles something about the dead bodies definitely killing the mood, but the crackle of a familiar voice from the walkie talkie talks over him.

"Six minutes. By the way, you might want to check out that note on the operating table."

You grumble your thanks, gingerly picking up the note between two fingers like it's contaminated. 

Dear Kanya,

I cannot help it. You told me not to Kill, that you can feed on your own, but I am nothing if not Anxious for you and Vera. I have provided for you as long as I could, but it seems that the police have caught onto my trail, as incompetent as they are Normally. You'd not believe it if I admitted it, but I have gotten sloppY in my grief.   
The elders Are heretics. Despite what they preach, they do not belieVe in the Existence of those like you. The dead come back as supeRnatural creAtures? The very ideA is preposterous to one who canNot see. But I have seen. The horrorterrors have risen at my commanD. You have talked to me, comforted me at my lowest points.   
Now that I am at Risk of being caught, I will jOin you Shortly. All I'll need to do is prepAre the two newest victims as future provisions for us aLl and sacrifice mYself.  
We'll be a family agaiN.   
I promiseD.

All my love, Rosalynd.

"Odd capitalization here," John notes, poring over the paper. "Especially for someone who writes that prim and proper"

"Bet it's a code. It's a suspicious note anyways, even without the punctuation." You search the paper for every oddly emphasized letter and string them slowly together out loud.  
"K-A-N-Y-A-V-E-R-A-A-N-D-R-O-S-A-L-Y-N-D. Huh."

"'Kanyav, Eraa, Nros, Alynd'? Weird."

"No, dipshit, it's obviously 'Kanya, Vera, and Rosalynd'. The whole family, how endearing. Now what the shit is this for?"

John mimicks your tone of voice right back at you. "Obviously the single door with the letter keypad. Dipshit."

"Alright, alright, keep your tits on." You mosey over to the keypad and leisurely punch in the long password. It beeps angrily at you, and a frown settles on your face. Huh. You really thought that was the password.

John leans over your shoulder. "You spelled it 'K-A-N-Y-A-V-E-R-A-A-N-F-R-O-S-A-L-Y-N-D. Let me do it." He nudges you aside just as Kanaya's voice bursts out from the receiver in your hand with a warning of "Two minutes."  
He's carefully punching in the letters one by one when you hear the click clack of high heels above your head and your blood runs cold.   
"Faster!" You hiss, and John shoots you an irritated look. You hear a snicker from the walkie talkie, and wow, Kanaya is definitely laughing at your panic. Fucking sadist.  
The door swings open with a small click and light pours in from the outside just as the sound of high heels gets louder and louder. Kanaya is outside, walkie talkie in hand, and she's smiling at the two of you. 

"Congratulations! You beat the escape room by one minute!" Her voice echos slightly from the receiver in your hand. John whoops, throwing an arm around you.

"Dude! We did it!"

You are maybe a little less enthused.  
"With only one minute left? Damn. We should've spent less time fucking around."

John shushes you, grabbing the receiver from your hand.  
"It's about the journey, not the destination! I'll go put away the walkie talkie." He slides off of you, practically bouncing away to hand over the receiver. That leaves you alone with Kanaya.

"Why do you like this story so much?" You ask eventually in an attempt at small talk, recalling her previous statement from when you both were still trying to escape.

She's caught off-guard by your question, her face surprised. You figure most players don't talk to her except to finagle hints. 

"Oh. Ah— well, it's..…. romantic?" She shrugs and you stare at her incredulously.

"People died in the story. This was advertised as a mystery-slash-horror escape room. Where's the romance?"

"I think the lengths Rosalyn went to to provide for her wife even after death are admirable. She really did adore her," she says and you don't want to be rude especially because Kanaya has put up with a lot of shit for the past hour (including your impromptu freestyle rap in the very middle of the allotted time and John's attempt at becoming an amateur electrician), but what in the hell? There can't be all there is to it.   
You fix her with a suspicious look and she shrugs and mumbles, "Also if I were, hypothetically, if I were to become a supernatural being after death, like perhaps a vampire —"

"Oh my god."

"And my wife was an intelligent, ruthless, and beautiful woman who loved my daughter and I enough to p—"

"I'm gonna stop you now."

You decide right then and there that Kanaya has read too many vampire romance novels. Probably not Twilight, but some obscure lesbian supernatural romance paperbacks, you think. Did Rose write something in that genre along with all of her gay wizard fanfiction? Oh shit, Rose. You should totally set up Kanaya with Rose.

"… If I were, hypothetically, if I were to give you my—"

She cuts you off, her expression suddenly looking a little strained. "Apologies, if. If it wasn't clear enough, I am…. erm.. not. Attracted to men? No offense, Dave."

You blink slowly behind the cover of your shades, processing her words before your eyes widen in realization and you hasten to correct yourself. 

"Oh, no, no, no. I'm not hitting on you. Respect. Respect the desire for a brainy goth ladyfriend with honed murder instincts. Could never be me, though you cannot lie that I would look sexy as fuck as a goth girl."   
You're going off topic, idiot.   
"I just know someone who might fit the bill."

Kanaya seems doubtful at first, but after a moment of very careful consideration on her part, she nods, giving you the go ahead.   
"Proceed."

You clear your throat dramatically, beginning to repeat what you had said before you were cut off.   
"If I were, hypothetically, if I were to give you my… lesbian goth psychologist sister's number, like I'm being perhaps a super cool dope wingman," you mimick Kanaya's previous tone, the one she used when talking about the escape room ""romance"".

She lets an amused huff of air out of her nose, her lips crinkling upwards in a small smile. "Perhaps. Do you have a photo reference so I know exactly what I'm getting into?"

Mmm. Do you have a flattering photo of Rose? You scroll through your phone, skipping all the blurry photos you took just to bother her when she was minding her own business. No matter how funny the one with Dirk flashstepping behind her with a sword was, it certainly wasn't dating material. 

Finally, you settle on a photo Rose took herself and sent you, of her playing with her new kitten, Mutie. Short for. Uh. Vodka Mutini….? You mostly saved it for the cat, but you guess it works here too.   
You show it off to Kanaya, and the slight flush that spreads across her face plus the softening of her expression says it all. She takes your phone to observe the photo closer, even zooming in on it at some point (??? why is she zooming in on it???)  
Finally looking up at you, you're greeted with a hesitant nod and your phone back.  
"I suppose…. I wouldn't be opposed to seeing if.….. perhaps a double date, with you and John."

…..  
.. you and John? Double date? Dating? Huh? You feel your normally enormous brain sputter to a complete stop at that.   
Your cheeks warm, and you just know that you're blushing as you distractedly text Rose to gloat over your dope wingmanship. Curse your pale skin.  
"What? No. You've got the wrong idea."

Mmm, Kanaya says knowingly, and you frown at her.  
"No, we're just a couple of guys being dudes. Dudes being guys."

"Dudes being gay. I know how that vine ends, you can't fool me."

Goddamnit, you whisper under your breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's play how hard can cherry ignore homestuck^2. the answer is very. i have blocked all of it + the epilogues out of my mind (except for john's depression and that one time dave said john's mustache was hot).

**Author's Note:**

> this baby has been loitering in my drafts for ages now. new year new me im putting it out into the world and if it gets spit on that's fine :) multichaptered but updates will be when i remember to


End file.
